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(DXM; Datura; Psilocybin; LSA; Alcohol; Cannabis / Various) "This Sunny Day" ... "Thi

ForEverAfter

ForEverAfter

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(DXM; Datura; Psilocybin; LSA; Alcohol; Cannabis / Various) "This Sunny Day" ... "Thi

“This Sunny Day”

(DXM Hbi ~ 450mg / Datura Stramonium ~ 17 seeds / Cannabis)​

9:00 am

Wake up on the couch, with a hangover. Somebody's knocking on the door. It's becoming increasingly difficult to know how to react to a visitor. Either the sherrif coming to take my possessions, in which case I need to be very still and not make a noise. Or a courier delivering some illegal drugs, that I have to sign for. If I don't sign for it: I'll have to go pick it up at the post office in a couple of days, with ID. Then again, if it's the sherrif and I open the door. The house is fucked. Clearly a junky hovel. The scales are still out from last night. There's an ounce of weed on the coffee table. And another half ounce in the cabinet. Bucket bong beside the couch. Empty bottles of beer and whiskey. Datura seeds. Amanita Muscaria caps. Psilocybin mushrooms. Pornography.

I get up, without making a noise. Sneak over to the window and try to peer out. I move my red velvet curtain out of the way. So slowly that I'm not even sure it's moving. There's nobody out there. I take a deep breath and open the door. My front lawn, illuminated by sunlight. Vacant. No sherrif. No courier. My head feels like a pile of shit. Time to get the day started.

Ask myself the same question I ask every time I wake up after a hard night's drink. Why. There are so many drugs available to me, so why drink. At the same time, it depresses me that I don't have a beer left over. If I did, I'd be drinking it already.

I sit down at the computer and it dawns on me. There's a bottle of cough syrup in the fridge. It's been in there for over a month. Waiting for me. I forgot about it.

My sweet dextromethorphan.

I grab the little blue box, and open it up. A third of a bottle. Not enough. Got to go down to the fucking pharmacy. I put on my headphones. They hold my hair in place. My crazy hair. When people say they have a mohawk, you imagine it being well manicured. I shaved the back of my head with an electric razor and no mirror. There is a tuft of long hair sticking out the top of my head. I don't brush it or wash it a lot of the time. I'm thirty years old and my hair isn't that thick. It looks fucking weird. Sticking out in different directions. I look like a fucking lunatic sometimes. Particularly when I'm stumbling down the street, drinking straight whiskey and singing at the top of my voice. Usually I cover up with a classy hat. Today, I couldn't be fucked; today, I blast "Disraeli Gears".

10:00 am

I sit down at the tram stop. Haven't changed my clothes for a couple of days now. Smell like a hobo again. There's this Asian chick beside me. Nice ass. Her jeans wrap around her cheeks. I realize I'm looking straight at her cunt. It's been too long. I'm becoming an animal.

The dextromethorphan allows me to witness my self loathing from an exterior perspective. I see myself, suffering. I see myself, staring into the denim canyon. Indifferent. I smoke a joint. The smoke is hard on my infected lungs. I cough up some phlegm, spitting it onto the road. The Asian girl with the nice ass, she thinks I'm disgusting. And maybe I am. So be it.

As I'm appproaching the pharmacy, I start to get into character. Start behaving like a normal person. Walking in a straight line. Normal. Straight. I take a deep breath. Glance idly at various products as I walk through the store. Got to be careful not to charge straight for the DXM products, like I know exactly where they are. Normal people don't buy cough syrup that frequently. And I look, and smell, like a fucking lunatic.

I'm not concerned about being seen as a junky. I should point that out. I don't give a fuck what the silly bitch behind the pharmacy counter, with her inch-thick makeup, thinks of me. I'd walk in a fucking pride parade for drugs if there was such a thing. When pharmacy staff ask me if I've had the medicine before, I'd love to tell them that I drink it on a semi-regular basis. I have no shame. The only reason I pretend is: I want the fucking drugs.

She says, "You had this before?"

I just look at her. And nod.

Miss the tram going back towards the city. Figure I might as well walk. It's only three stops. The sun is out today. I don't know why people chose to live in cold climates. It doesn't make sense to me. The winter is harsher every year, it seems. There are people in the world who live in horrible conditions. People whose houses burn down every three or four decades. They continually rebuild structures where structures should not be built. Earthquakes.

And the cold.

Melbourne is so cold when you're poor.

I guess maybe that's it. The older I get, the more independent I become. The less reliant I am on my family's considerable wealth. The winters aren't getting harsher. They're just getting more expensive. Life is difficult. I work hard and I suffer a lot. I often don't have much to eat, or much sleep. So I love the sun. It means so much to me. This sunny day.

I walk down the street drinking from my bottle of cough syrup. I can feel it, thick on my teeth. People give me strange looks; cough syrup bottles are clearly medicinal. They are not to be confused with soft drink bottles or beer bottles. They're designed this way. So, when you see someone walking down the street drinking from one, you know. Even if you aren't aware of the fact that there are inebriants available from pharmacies. You know. Everybody who sees me knows. That I'm taking some kind of semi-legal drug, blatantly.

It's a similar feeling to walking down the street with a bottle of whiskey against your lips; in both situations, I make an effort to exercise freedoms I believe we all deserve. These are my pride parades. Me, stumbling down the street.

Drunk.

High.

Dissociated.

And damn proud.

11:00 am

All three of my cats came up to me when I arrive back home. Each one from a different bush, or fence. As soon as I step foot on my property, they each make a small noise and begin their approach. Followed me into the backyard, where I twist my ankle and fall onto the concrete. I lay there for a while, with the numb pain in my leg and the sun on the back of my head. My cats, scurrying about around me. It's the first time I'd been outside for a prolonged period of time, in weeks; for no reason, just breathing the air and being warmed by the sun.

I move, and lie down underneath the clothesline. On the fresh cut grass. The green clothesline wire divides the sky into parallelograms. Blue and white parallelograms.

A cloud comic strip.

The earth feels amazing against my spine. Grass is better than any mattress. The contours of this beautiful planet lock together with my hunched shoulder blades like a jigsaw puzzle.

I close my eyes. The sun against my face.

1:00 pm

There's this weird feeling you get on dissociatives. It used to freak me out. Now I know what it is. There is no difference between my hair and my brain. Hair always seemed strange to me. It's dead. Your hair is dead. Some of your skin is dead, too. But it's still you. Constantly living and dying. The universe is comprised of my hair and my brain cells.

Upon writing this, I experience extreme euphoria. It is my first full-blown sensory Amanita flashback. You know that feeling when you suddenly remember a huge chunk of your dream in vivid detail? Most of the time I can't pinpoint the trigger. Same thing goes for flashbacks.

Ever since I started seriously dabbling in the Red mushroom, I've had these fragments of visions floating around in my head. Contemplating them, always. Sometimes I unravel hidden subconscious memories. Little flashbacks. But this. The Amanita euphoria. It comes back to me. Inifinite euphoria.

I feel like I'm on Amanita Muscaria now. I am twitching. I know what it is. The infinite euphoria. There is a mindset that is pure love. Everything is interchangable. All possibilities exist, thanks to infinity. This is why heaven exists. Heaven and hell are opposite walls in the infinite realm. The infinite euphoria. Heaven. It's a state of mind. I can travel between different versions of myself. I can conjure up depression. I can also conjure up extreme joy.

This is magic.

It is possible for me to settle into the version of myself that loves everything always and for ever.

Being happy is a decision, I am yet to make.

2:00 pm

My entire body is numb.

I eat 17 Datura Stramonium seeds.

There is very little information available regarding the combinative effects of dextromethorphan and datura.

I feel weird. Not sure how to describe it. None of the euphoria from earlier remains. I am distant. My brain is paying very little attention to the information being collected by my ears and eyes. I open a desk drawer and get out a bright blue whiteboard marker.

I write the word “DATURA” on my hand, in capital letters. I write it there to help me remember that I'm on a drug that causes you to forget. Just in case.

Lie down on the grass. The sun warm against my skin. The damp grass. The vast sky. My eyes are drawn to the sun. I look at it, just for a split second. It is magnificent. I close my eyes and curl up on the ground. The sound of the wind in the trees, screaming for the forest that was once here.

The sun is like infinity. We are so small compared to it. It is the constant. We are the variables.

My soul stretches out across time, unfolding itself towards infinity. I can hear the sound of hammers and cranes. Metal against metal against metal. Car engines. Tyres. Muffled voices. Birds. There is an enormous amount of light coming in through my left eyelid. I become paranoid that it is open slightly and that I'm staring directly at the sun. I walk inside. There are these burnt purple images of the sun floating around in my field of vision. I don't know if they're there because I'm hallucinating or because I was, indeed, looking at the sun.
 
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"This Rainy Day"

(DXM HBi ~ 450 mg / Datura Stramonium ~ 30 seeds / Psilocybe Cyanescens ~ 2.5 g / Hawaiian Baby Woodrose ~ 9 seeds / Alcohol ~ 5 beers / Cannabis)​

Wake up on the couch. Remnants of the past three days are scattered about the house. Getting towards the end of the binge period now. That tricky grey area in between recreational binger and fully fledged junky. The question is not whether or not to get high, it is whether or not to clean up.

I'm going to get high, either way, obviously.

I rub my eyes. The eyelids are pratically sealed together at the edges with crust. I am extremely dehydrated. I get up and walk outside to the letterbox. Have to slip my toes into a pair of shoes cause it's fucking wet outside.

My mohawk. I hate that word. It's all fucked up. Bed hair is one thing; mohawk bed hair is another. Especially when you're thirty years old. My hair isn't thick, but it isn't that thin either. Most guys have lost a fair bit of hair by their thirties. Most of them get a conservative haircut. Conceal the hairloss. I do the opposite. I don't want to be fifty years old and still trying to convince myself that I have a full head of hair. I force myself to deal with it. Get used to being confident without vanity. Because vanity doesn't last forever. We all get old. Might as well get used to it.

It's the middle of the day. I live in a high traffic street. People are always parking in front of my house, at all times of the day. I walk out to the letterbox, my hair sticking up in weird directions. Curry stains on my clothes. And there it is. My Hawaiian Baby Woodrose seeds.

12:43 pm

Take 30 Datura Stramonium seeds. Put 9 Hawaiian Baby Woodrose seeds into a grinder with 2.5 grams of Psilocybe Cyanescens. It smells and looks like sawdust. With a bit of a mushroom aroma thrown in. Like I'd ground up wooden mushrooms. Or something. I find a scrap of paper. Wrap it up into a cone shape and use it as a funnel. Pour the powder into a beer glass I stole from the University pub three days ago. It's the only clean glass in my house. Instantly the water turns into a brown sludge. It doesn't settle to the top or the bottom. The sludge spreads out evenly. There are no spoons to stir it with. I find a black plastic chopstick. Mix it all together well, and drink. It looks like some sort of cocktail, but it tastes like shit. I drink three quarters of the glass, and put it down on the bench. My face tightens up into – what I imagine is – a horrible expression. I hold it like that. It feels like if I let go, I might vomit it back up. Less than five minutes after consumption, my stomach starts hurting. Nothing too serious yet, though. I've heard bad things about Hawaiian Baby Woodrose seeds. Then again, people are pussies. So, it's hard to tell. I've never had LSA before. I will admit that it's a little reckless to combine HBWR seeds with numerous other drugs upon first ingesting them. But I've had a lot of LSD. And everything else. So, I figure, why the fuck not? I can handle LSA. I can handle psilocybin. The wild card is, and always will be, Datura.

I'm fifteen minutes in, and I've only consumed three out of five of my intended drugs. My stomach is hurting quite a lot now. I have to hurry into the lounge to make myself a joint, to deal with the nausea. It comes at me in a massive wave. My entire body is tingling. Feels like I've eaten rocks. Then somebody has kicked me in the stomach a couple of times. It's seriously painful and sickening. I struggle to make a joint. Light it, shakily. I wasn't expecting this. I'm going to be sick. I go and sit down by the toilet to smoke my joint. The smell of toilet paper and cleaning products. The smell of shit and piss. I vomit nothing. There is nothing in my stomach. The seed/mushroom powder has gone straight past my stomach into my jejenum. Vomitting nothing is painful, so I give the okay to reverse my digestive system. It is, in itself, painful to do. Forcing food back from jejenum to stomach. I vomit saliva. I am dry-reaching. I try harder. Finally, I can feel the release. My system goes into emergency reverse. I vomit a small amount of clear liquid. I can see three Datura seeds floating in it. Everything else has already been absorbed. It's too late. The panic hits me a bit. I haven't had anything to eat or drink all day. I woke up dehydrated from Datura, and just started consuming more. What happens if my stomach doesn't stop hurting? How long can I last like this before I call an ambulance. When people say certain drugs are hard on the stomach, you don't think of this. This is insane. Hawaiian Baby Woodrose seeds are very clearly not meant for human consumption. I have poisioned myself. I need to vomit. I force my body, harder and harder. Then, it comes. A mouthful of muhsroom powder. It's enough to satisfy me, psychologically.

I manage to get myself onto the couch. Instantly, my cat recognizes the pain I am in. He curls up on me, purring loudly, doing his best to heal me. For the next ninety minutes, or so, he treats me like a couch. I do not move. Cannot move. I become a statue. The cat loses sight, consciously, of the fact that he is sitting on a person. I watch him. My face does not move. I am breathing so slowly that I can't even tell if I'm breathing. He grooms himself. His tiny pink tongue flicking at his black and white fur. I see in extreme detail. Somehow the effects of the LSA are almost instant. I am having extremely strong closed-eye visuals. Bright patterns. Brighter than LSD. Metallic, is the best way to describe them. Because metal has that brilliant sheen. Because metal, I guess, is the shiniest thing we know in the physical world. But they shine more brilliantly than metal. Metallic is limiting to the imagination. If there was something infinitely more precious than gold. That might explain it. But there isn't. So “metallic”, however insufficient a term, will have to do. The patterns come in blues and greens. Those are the predominant (primary) colours. The secondary colours are red and purple. All psychedelics vary somewhat in terms of patternwork. It's hard to pinpoint the differences because they seem subtle. Sort of like how jazz music all sounds the same if you don't listen to jazz. These subtle differences are not at all subtle. They are so complex that I can't wrap my head around differentiation. They are similar in the sense that they are all patterns. The jazz example is perhaps not the best. Because many people will insist that jazz music really does sound the same, and it is not an issue of perspective. I'll explain it like this. The LSD pattern, your LSD pattern, on this particular day - of the Earth's rotation. It is an enormously complicated fractal. Fractals are generated by algorithms. To those unfamiliar with mathematics, algorithms may appear to be “just a bunch of numbers and letters and other funny little symbols”. You may not, given your limited perspective, be able to differentiate between the algorithm for an LSD pattern or the algorithm for determining the male population of salt water ducks in the tristate area – which is not to say that there are insignificant differences between the two. Still, numbers are just numbers. And patterns are just patterns. You show most people a mathematically generated fractal, and they are amazed. Then you show them another one, and they – more or less – think: “Yeah, I've seen that.” We are conditioned to discard extraordinary differences, by labeling them as “random”.

They are not random. They are so incredibly complicated, as to appear random. This is chaos.

It takes around twenty minutes for the pain in my stomach to subside. I don't want to brush over this. Because it's important. I'm not talking about a little discomfort, here. I'm a maniac. I drink whiskey straight out of the bottle until my eyes water. I'll eat fifty to a hundred grams of Amanita Muscaria in a single day, no worries. I've even consumed a foot and a half of San Pedro cactus, raw, without any major concerns. The pain from Hawaiian Baby Woodrose seeds is substantial. It causes serious gastrointestinal discomfort. I lay there, writhing in pain. My stomach folding over on itself. Incapable of getting up to drink a glass of water. What I could scoop from under the tap, with the palm of my hand, is all I've had today. I lie there, dreaming about yoghurt. Hoping for the pain to go away. After a while, I realize. What's the fucking point? I'm not going to get up and grab a glass of water. I'm not going to the fridge to make myself a bowl of blueberry yoghurt. I accept the pain and it no longer bothers me. The pain is only painful if I let it be. I meditate. I relax myself.

This punishment, this pain, like drinking your own urine or feeling sick or going mad. This is my penance. It breaks me down. Forces me to be humble.

I like LSA.

I'm surprised how much I like it. I should point out that these seeds are 100% organic and untreated. As nature intended. I thought when I was vomitting and writhing in pain, these are meant for consumption. But what is, drug wise? Drugs are, by their very nature, things that aren't meant to be consumed. We find active ingredients in plants and extract them. We synthesize chemicals. These aren't part of our natural diet. They have such profound reactions, perhaps in part, for this reason.

Psychedelics, in their natural state, make me think of Mortification of the Flesh. The bodyload from natural psychedelics is this self-inflicted pain that we accept in order to accommodate divination. As for most things, the drugs have since been removed. So Christians literally hurt themselves to feel closer to God. The funny thing about these fundamentalists – or not so funny, really – is that they are experiencing punishiment without reward. They are missing out on the whole point. Unless, of course, the pain is the point. In which case God is really the Devil.

Life is suffering. Death, as an end to suffering, is – therefore – bliss. This is what Tibetan Buddhists believe. The more pain we can absorb before the release the better.

Same goes for trips. Trips are mini lives, with mini births and mini deaths. The death is the peak. After that, chemicals subside and your body returns to normal. The simulation is over.

A man who is at peace with everything, and who understands all, gains nothing from psychedelia. So, therefore, a man who is utterly confused gains everything. Pain killers don't function – as intended – unless you are in pain. The more these drugs cure me of my spiritual illness, the less value they have to me. That's what's most difficult about using psychedelic drugs for long-term theraputic purposes: you have to let go of them one day.

Because I know I should let go, maybe that's why I think I deserve to be punished by these drugs. The ratio of punishment to reward seems more appropriate now, especially considering how I've indulged and abused these wonderful substances. And the longer it goes on, the more I will need to be punished. Until the reward becomes so exponentially and infinitely small, that it ceases to exist. And then there is just punishment. Like the Christians without the drugs.

Maybe that is divinity. Suffering. Pain. Or, more specifically, the acceptance of suffering and pain.

The unconditional surrender of all fear; I am afraid of this.

The trip runs it's course in less than three hours.

3:20 pm

I am hungry. I decide to delay food; I will appreciate it all the more when it finally comes.

I go looking for the cough syrup; find it outside, in the rain, beside my soaking wet leather sandals. I pour two thirds of a bottle (of Robotussin Dry Cough Forte, vintage 1983, fermented in a red oak barrel with hints of rosemary and thyme) into my glass. Into the beer glass I stole from University. The one with the black plastic chop stick. I drink it down in one go. It's cold from the weather, as if it's been in the fridge.

It's funny, the subtle differences between a tramp and a monk.

Are junkies closer to spiritual awareness due to the devalued aspects of their former lives? Does it matter if junk or God breaks you down materialistically; and, therefore, isn't God junk?

Are junkies shooting God into their veins?

The junky worships junk. The truly pious, in the house of Junk, are devoted entirely. Devoted with their bodies and their spirits. Willing to sacrifice every other aspect of themselves. Their children. Their health. All for God.

You might scoff at me finding a bottle of cough syrup outside in the rain. You might turn your nose up, and think, “Who is this pathetic junky?” when I tell you that I poured it into a dirty glass I stole from a pub. And stirred it with a chop stick. But the thing is, I really don't care about what you think. This is a sacrifice I have made. This is a sacrifice that all junkies make. Self respect. I have none, so you cannot bruise it.

People point to the Book of Job as an example of God being a saddistic son of a bitch. As usual, people miss the point. This is one of my favorite books of the Old Testament, it is so well written. And it's a realy story. Long enough to lose yourself in. A lot of the Old Testament stories are told from such a great distance. “Moses walked through the desert for forty years,” it says. And you think, “Fuck. That was a sentence.” Job is the opposite. It's like eighty pages long. One story. One man and all the horrible things God can inflict upon him. Everything in his life is taken away. He is punished so severely, until he has nothing – except for his faith. The elements of his life, his prior good fortune, has to be taken away to prove his faith. In other words: it's easy to have faith in God when you have everything. A truly pious man needs nothing. Job is The Pious Man. Like Jesus. A perfect ideal. In reality, it is nearly impossible to accomplish. We should not strive to be Job or Jesus. Rather, we should strive to approach them. They, as people, do not exist. They are the perfect people. The ideal people.

Critics of Christianity argue that it is cruel to set an unobtainable goal. But life is the pursuit of an unobtainable goal. To chase infinity is not cruel. It is the nature of everything.

So does that mean, says the Imbecile, “I should disown my children and burn down my house?” Some people laugh, because he is a fool. Others laugh, because they are fooled.

“No,” God replies. “It's a fucking story.” Then he thinks, “Why do I even bother?” And – transcending time – kills a hundred thousand people with a plague, four centuries ago.

And we demand. “If God can do anything, why does he chose to inflict such pain upon us?”

Rather than. “Why is the pain not constant?”

Poor God. It's a hard job. Being held accountable for everything.

People who love to criticize religion are often people who, arrogantly, refuse to understand it. The Bible is not full of stupid and wildly inaccurate historical accounts. If you think that, I'm sorry, you are an idiot. The Bible is full of stories. It is an amalgam of attempts by enlightened people, to enlighten. The Bible is the spiritual equivalent of a pop-up story book. It has been dumbed down as much as possible for mass consumption. God doesn't really exist. There is no “God”. It is a narrative tool, that establishes the cosmic question with a reaonsable set of reference points.

Idiots refer to God as He, believing that God has a penis. This happens for centuries. Millenia. First, with the Ancient religions, there were both male and female Gods. And they fucked. And had God children. Eventually, the male religious types realized they didn't need to give women any credit. So God became He. The old man with the beard.

Now, pissed-off man hating lesbians worship Goddesses.

“Why?” Asks Mr. Sarcastic, “Because the obvious solution to gender inequality is gender inequality.”

God doesn't have a penis.

Or a vagina.

If you need to illustrate God as a man or a woman, fine. But don't lose sight of the fact that it's a fucking illustration. People who read the Bible, and scoff at it. “Look at what it says here,” snigger snigger. Laugh laugh. These people are idiots.

The most common criticism of religious texts is: “If this was a literal story, it would be insane.” And the most common defence of religious texts is: “Like I said before, it's a fucking story.”

The stories will always be imperfect. Translations of the divine will always be open to scrutiny. Because men can deconstruct what they can build. We are more prone to disbelief than we are towards belief. People don't want to believe. They are afraid of the Truth. They mock it, because they are cowards.

It cannot be a co-incidence. God. It is not a co-incidence. There is a reason that religious institutions have existed in every culture throughout history. Science explains things. We see a rock. We analyse it. Faith is about something that we know exists, but cannot see. Men and women throughout history have struggled to share their faith with other people. And we will continue to do so. Because it is invaluable. Intellectualism is a defense mechanism. The intellectual is not spiritually advanced. That doesn't mean: be an idiot. It means, let go of the rational. Use intellectual processes for intellectual pursuits and spiritual processes for spiritual pursuits. You can be both ingelligent and enlightened. Or you can be an enlightened idiot. Or a spiritually bankrupt genius. The worst of these is, for me, the last one. We don't know very much. The world used to be flat. One day we will look back at the intellectuals of today and laugh. How little they knew. And so on and so forth. We place so much importance on being clever. And so little importance on faith.

The intellectual atheist dies with nothing; the pious idiot with everything.

Job has nothing and everything; the junky has nothing and everything.

Because nothing is everything. And birth is death.

4:14 pm

Somebody asked me, about my last trip report, “How does one thing affect the other?” The Datura and the DXM. I'd like to be able to explain. Maybe I could separate the two if I really tried. But it's so difficult. It's so clinical. Dissecting this feeling, like I'm some sort of laboratory experiment.

Trip reports are more about how people feel than specifically what they feel.

If somebody eats a pasta, you don't ask them how the onion tasted in comparison to the tomato. You say, “What did you think of the pasta?”

With complicated drug cocktails, it becomes too difficult (or too much of a chore) to compartmentalize. 450 mg of DXM. 9 Hawaiian Baby Woodrose seeds. 2.5 grams of Psilocybe Cyanescens. 30 Datura Stramonium seeds. Minus the bits that I threw up. Plus various joints here and there. I'm tripping. It's hard enough to document the experience, generally. I don't even mention most of the time when I smoke a joint. So, you're missing bits. There's no way to track my brain chemistry via this document. This is not a scientific document. It is a spiritual document.

Yes, these things are chemicals. If you chose to see them that way.

They are also instruments of God.

Having said all that, I find it incredibly difficult to describe the effects of Datura. I think it's part of the effect of the drug. Some people say they don't know they are tripping when they're on Datura. To a lesser extent, you don't know the effects while you are experiencing them.

And, I'm not a huge believer in retrospective trip reports. Because memories lie.

The DXM is coming on pretty strong now. It's not as strong as it should be. I suspect the stimulant qualities of the remaining LSA in my bloodstream might be counteracting the sedative effect of the DXM. I was a little apprehensive about consuming DXM and LSA together, for this reason. I have a slight headache. But it's impossible to say whether or not that is a result of malnutrition or dehydration. I realize, I still haven't had anything to eat or drink today.

My lips are stuck together. I swallow. The saliva is so thick it feels like it might get stuck in my throat going down. I can feel it. This lump in my throat.

I look up at my spider. This tiny black speck that I stare at when I'm high. He's been there for weeks. The web is so fine I can't see it, especially without my glasses. The spider, this little black speck, just looks like it's floating there. Like nothing is supporting it. And I think, looking at it, how difficult it must be. To support itself there, with nothing to hold onto.

I think, what a struggle that must be. Because I am conditioned to be blind.

I need to get stoned. Seriously stoned.

4:41 pm

Crumbling up a couple of grams between my fingers onto the computer desk. Massive OEVs. Huge distortions. The desk is liquid, constantly moving in every direction. The hallucinations feel like they're being pulled in different contrasting ways. Things are becoming bigger and smaller simultaneously.

“That's stupid!” says the Imbecile, standing beside his father's porsche. This obnoxious expression creeps onto his face and he assumes the bearing of someone with an undeserving degree. “It's physically impossible,” he stops, to take a deep breath, “for something to grow and shrink simultaneously.” Then he stands, triumphant, post-declaration.

Some laugh because he is a fool.

Others laugh because they are fooled.

God thinks to himself, “Why do I bother?” and kills another hundred thousand men and women.

So the Imbecile says, “Behold, why does God kill these people?”

And then God kills more.

This goes on for ever until everyone is dead.

You might think I'm just being cute.

I'm not.

If you don't understand this story, think about it.

It does make sense.

5:04 pm

Got sidetracked with the whole insane rambling thing.

Need to make that joint. I walk through to the lounge to grab some rolling papers. The smell of Lamb Roganjosh is thick in the air. Fuck I love that shit. It's like a thousand times tastier than anything in the world. Indian food is insane. Like if you're really high and you just chow down into a spicy curry. There's nothing like that. Western food is shit. Just sugary shit. Indian food is amazing. I get this image of a lamb in my head. The face of a delicious little lamb. This weird cocktail of drugs has enabled me to want to eat that animals face. And feel nothing. Usually I'm conflicted about meat. Because I love animals. But animals eat animals. You need to love them while biting their face off. That sounds insane, but it's true. It sounds impossible, too. But it's not. I just experienced it. Briefly.

During my LSA trip earlier in the day, when I was incapable of moving. A human couch, watching my cat groom himself. I remember thinking about the parasites that he was attacking. His entire life is spent defending himself against parasites. Killing parasites, in order to sustain his life.

It's easy to break this down into good and bad. The parasites are bad. The host is good. But, really, it's all just life. “Good” and “bad” challenge each other, so as to ensure the survival of both.

This never ending war between the elements; this polarized battle: it sustains us in the middle.

It is the balance of the universe.

Lambs are cute. They are also food. Therefore, they are cute food. People don't like this. Food made from cute animals? Food should be made from disgusting pigs!

Why?

An edible boy is born to a couple.

The doctor gives them a use-by-date. The doctor says, you have to eat your son by the time he turns fifteen or he will expire. So they do. They lovingly devour him. They eat his face. Either that or they throw it in the bin. Is it better to not eat your son's face?

Is it better to throw away your son's edible face bacon?

Answer me that, if you dare!

God is amused; he spares a thousand babies.

6:05 pm

I light my joint, finally. Smoke it.

Achieving the perfect Datura dream is like trying to flip a coin and have it land on both sides. It is that unobtainable ideal. Job. Jesus. Datura. That exact moment where dreams and reality meet. To be able to exist on both sides of the fence. The real dream. The lucid dream. That is Datura. I feel it now. It scares me. I am dissociated, physically. I am also dissociated between dream and reality.

When you hallucinate on Datura, the hallucinations are not hallucinations. They are real. In a lucid dream everything is as real as reality. It is a virtual world, as real as our own. So, too, for Datura. When you see something move, you believe that it is moving. You allow yourself to let go. To become the dream. The rules of reality subside. This is a beautiful thing. The problem is basically traffic and electricity. The problem is law. The drug itself is amazing. It has massive potential. The reason Datura frightens people is because it's incompatible with the modern world.

It's a shame that we're so constricted.

If you end up walking naked down the street, you'll get arrested. You'll be put in a mental hospital or in jail. What a shame. Because how incredible it is to break through everything. And to not care about clothes. To transcend and become one with nature. How beautiful a thing this is. Yet we laugh at people who end up like that. We call them lunatics. And tramps. And junkies. And low-lifes.

Because we are afraid.

I'm sick of being afraid.

I want to strip down and run screaming down the street.

I want to live in a society in which I can take a highly unpredictable substance and have a spiritual episode that lasts days – even weeks – and end up naked wandering down the street. And not have people laugh at me. Or lock me up.

The planet is beautiful.

And I am an animal.

Unfortuntely, I also belong to a species that locks up animals.

I play with Datura. The effects accumulate over days. If you eat ten seeds every day for four days, by the fourth day your dose is higher than ten seeds. Currently, I'm approaching the madness threshold. I am always careful to stay on this side of it. But I am very close. This isn't the right place to be doing this. The traffic scares me, most of all.

If you're a little animal out in the wild and you eat Datura. Say you're a rabbit. I don't know if rabbits eat Datura. Let's just say they do. So you're this little white rabbit. And you're tripping the fuck out. You have no idea where you are or what you're doing. You wander out of your burrough into the wild blue world. Totally vulnerable to predators, should there be any around.

When animals rise to a certain place in the food chain, they are able to inebriate themselves without fear of being killed. We are at the top of the food chain. Yet, I still fear.

Because of the repercussions. Of the judgements.

I am the rabbit, tripping, lowering it's defenses – despite the predators.
 
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9:30 pm

The cocktail has tapered off into a dull haze. I decide to go and get some alcohol. The DXM has run it's course. Should be okay. I'm seriously fucked up. Finding my shoes and a coat is difficult. I forget the keys. I forget my money. I forget my phone. I forget my earphones. I make it to the letterbox four times, realize I am ill prepared, and turn back. Finally, I'm ready. I stumble down the street. Walking is difficult. But I feel good, being outside. Euphoric. I listen to some Cream. Disraeli Gears. Walk down to the tram stop. Smoke a cigarette. I do buy six pack of Carlton Draught, a barbeque chicken, and some other supplies. Start drinking as soon as I get back out on the street. The alcohol has about half it's normal effect, due to the comedown from DXM. I drink a beer, quickly, and throw it into a bush. Open another one. Drink it. By the time I get home, there's half a six pack left. I keep drinking and smoking joints. But I can't get high. I'm still in this fog. This post DXM fog. The Datura doesn't help, either. I watch three new episodes of Breaking Bad.

1:30 am

Go to sleep.

"This"

(DXM HBi ~ 600 mg / Alcohol ~ 8 standard drinks / Hawaiian Baby Woodrose ~ 9 seeds / Psilocybe Cyanescens ~2.5 g / Cannabis)​

8:00 am

Wake up on the couch. Need to get up and go to work. Have a shower. Have some breakfast if I have time. I hit the snooze. Go back to sleep.

9:05 am

Seriously need to get the fuck up. I'm already late. Work started five minutes ago. I hit the snooze. Go back to sleep.

10:00 am

I get up. No time for a shower. Or breakfast. I change clothes, quickly. Grab a cigarette and the last beer from my six pack.

10:30 am

My disabled neighbor is at the tram stop. She likes me. I treat her like a human being. "Hello neighbor!" she says. Her face lights up upon seeing me. She glances at the beer in my right hand and the cigarette in my left. She smiles. I crack open the Draught and start drinking. I hide the beer in my sleeve as we get on the tram. We sit together and talk.

11:00 am

My shoes have holes in them. The ground is wet. My socks soak up the rain.

11:30 am

I arrive at work, 2.5 hours late. There are no dramas. I work quickly, so I can leave early. Maybe catch a bit of class.

1:30 pm

I arrive at Uni. Figure I might as well duck into the pub on the way to class. No time for a beer. I order two shots of whiskey and down them one after the other. Get to class, 1.5 hours late. Nobody is there. Oh well. Fuck it. I hang out in the library for a bit. I start downloading porn and TV shows. Don't have any USB discs, so I go to the front desk and tell them I lost one yesterday. The woman opens a lock-box full of flash drives, and dumps them out on the counter. "Yeah," I say. "That's it." Grab an expensive looking one, and return to my computer. Dump the porn and the TV episodes onto the flash drive. Fuck around a bit more, before I go back to the pub.

3:15 pm

Turns out I left my only set of house keys on the bar. I order a jug of beer, and sit down to write a short story. A story about an edible boy. While I'm writing I notice a couple of girls from my class. The one I have now decided not to go to. The one that started fifteen minutes ago. One of the girls is my partner for an upcoming presentation. I sit down with her and talk about my hatred of academia and intellectuals. Scam a cigarette off her friend, who I don't recognize.

Go outside. Smoke. The girls leave. I keep drinking. Scam a cigarette off the bartender. Smoke. Finish writing the outline for my story. It's perfect. This proves, once and for all, that drugs and alcohol are good for my writing. It's the best story idea I've had the whole year. It feels right. I'm motivated. Highly motivated to write it.

I leave a bit of beer in my pint glass, which is unusual for me. It's a good sign. I'm getting better. I don't think I'm an alcoholic anymore. Like, last night I had five beers. What kind of self-respecting alcoholic has five beers? I leave a bit in my pint glass, because I don't want to drink it. I go home.

I'm still wearing those shoes with the holes in them. And the ground is still fucking wet. My socks are soaked through. I'm freezing. It's got to be about seven degrees in Melbourne, today. Fucking miserable city.

4:30 pm

I clean up the lounge. Get rid of curry stains and empty beers. Scrape the roaches and cigarette butts off the table. I change the cat litter, can still smell piss though. Discover a pile of clothes in the bathroom, the cats have been pissing on. Chuck it outside. I turn on the gas heater in the lounge. Take off my socks and roast my feet like marshmallows. Lie down on the couch, in my tidy lounge, and relax. The smell of cat piss is no longer in the air. There isn't shit lying around all over the place anymore. Good enough. I'll call that a hard day's work. I fall asleep.

6:00 pm

My brother wakes me up, banging on the door. I let him in, but I'm in no state for conversation. I'm tired and disinterested. He tells me he's going to munch some LSD tomorrow. I tell him I'm going to do some LSA. I show him my Woodrose seeds. He's curious. My brother, he's not a drug geek. He takes mainstream drugs. No research chemicals. No weird shaman shit. I would offer him a handful of seeds, but there's no point. The stomach pain would be too much for him. Better he stick to LSD.

6:30 pm

I put 10.5 grams of fairly weak bud into a coffee grinder. Hold down the button until I can't hear any pieces flying around inside. Dump the powdered cannabis into a pot of simmering water with 6 ounces of butter. The ratio of marijuana to butter is 1:16; or, one ounce per pound.

7:15 pm

I leave it to simmer, chuck on a pair of headphones, blast some music, and go to the shops. I need a decent filter for the butter. Fucking supermarket doesn't have shit. Coffee filters. I fucking hate using coffee filters. Might as well just cut up some of my clothes and make a fabric pouch. Do it properly. I don't want to waste sixty - maybe seventy - dollars worth of weed. Whatever it is. I couldn't be bothered doing the math.

I want to eat it now. That's the problem with edibles. They take so long to prepare, properly. I started doing firecrackers for a while, but that's just a waste. And it tastes like shit. Nothing fucks you up quite like cannabutter.

7:30 pm

I pop into the pharmacy for some DXM. I don't take my headphones off when I'm dealing with the girl at the counter. She says something to me. I see her lips moving. Probably something along the lines of: "Have you had this medication before, sir?" or "Are you taking any other medications?"... Maybe even: "You can't hear what I'm saying can you, you filthy fucking junky." Whatever it is that she's babbling, I don't give a fuck. I point to the earphones, and shake my head. Grab the little blue box and my change. I don't know why they put the bottle in a box. It's weird. Why not just sell the bottle? Like is that a safety thing, or something?

Scenario 1.

Little Johnny goes to the medicine cabinet. He opens it. He sees a bottle, and thinks, "I'm thirsty." Despite being so stupid that he is incapable of differentiating between medicine and apple juice, he manages to open the child-proof lid. Then, he starts drinking. It doesn't taste like juice. It's thick and syrupy. It tastes horrible. Little Johnny doesn't wash his mouth out with tap water. No. He keeps drinking. Then, delirious, he wanders out into the street. And a truck squashes him into the ground. Poor little Johnny.

Scenario 2.

Little Johnny goes to the medicine cabinet. He opens it. He sees a box, and thinks, "I'm thirsty." Then he thinks, "You can't drink from a box!" Promptly closing the medicine cabinet and drinking from the faucet.

...

I pull the bottle out at the tram stop on the way home. I have a serious urge to get high. Really really high. But the tram pulls up before I have a chance to drink it. I jump on, still holding the bottle.

There's this drunk on the tram, proudly displaying the fact that he's drinking booze in public. I sit down opposite him and scull three quarters of a bottle of cough syrup. (~ 450mg DXM HBi) A woman, upon witnessing this, laughs...

8:30 pm

I have a bath. I'm filthy. My hair is so dirty, that my scalp hurts. I wash it. I scrub myself clean. I sit there, in the candlelight and smoke a joint. The DXM is coming up. Slowly. I don't know why but it seems to be having less effect than it used to. I'm not achieving a dissociated state, for some reason.

I thought it was just the LSA initially; now, I'm not sure.

9:30 pm

I pull out the bottle of cough syrup. I miscalculated earlier. There is more than 75 ml left. Which means my dose is more like 375 mg. There is a massive difference between 450 and 375. I should be more careful with DXM. I drink another mouthful. (~ 480mg DXM HBi)

10:00 pm

Now I've gone and had too much DXM. It's impairing my judgement. I'm getting confused. I walk around the house, trying to organize the last phase of the cannabutter. There's nothing clean to use. My DXM brain tells me to use outrageous things. Like the toilet roll container or the big empty plastic litter jar. I actually consider this. It has crystals in the bottom of it. I start thinking, "Right, how do I clean this 7.8 liter plastic bottle out?" Then I find this crystal bottle. It's really heavy. I don't know where it came from. The stopper is crystal, carved into weird shapes. It's kind of like what you see people drinking brandy out of in executive offices on those metal trays. It's the classiest thing in my house. I don't know what the fuck it's doing here.

The cannabutter has gone all dark and slick and oily on top of the water. Dark dark green. My head is fucked. The DXM is hitting me really hard, from every angle. Confusing me. I go into my bedroom and start riffling through t-shirts. Find one that I don't like and hack at it with a pair of nail scissors. End up with a weird shaped rag. stuff that into the crystal whatever the fuck it is. Grab a plastic funnel from a pile of dishes. There are poppy seeds stuck to it. The sink is full of black liquid. It's blocked. I've been plunging gunk for days. Can't use the sink. No matter how many times I plunge it, more shit keeps coming out. I don't know what the fuck's down there. I clean the funnel in the bath, then slap it into the crystal bottle using the t-shirt as a filter. Pour the butter water through it. The t-shirt fills up with this wet mush. It drips buttery water. It's working. I can see two layers in the bottle. Water and butter. But, I realize that the butter is going to set in the middle of the crystal bottle. I can't leave it like that. Fuck. The bottle's no good. Why am I using the old crystal thing anyway? I stand up on a stool and open a cupboard full of dirty dishes. Mold spores fill my lungs. I grab a plastic tub and close the cupboard. Breathe in the smell of weed. Beautiful weed. Put on a pair of rubber gloves. The ones I bought earlier. Go grab the rest of the t-shirt. Stuff it into the plastic container. Pour the butter water into it and carefully fold it up into a little pouch. Squeeze it with my rubber gloves. The water is close to boiling. It burns me, through the gloves. The DXM helps numb the pain. I keep squeezing, until there's nothing left. Then I drop the t-shirt back into the saucepan, with all of the gunk and put it on to simmer for round two.

Holy fuck. That was seriously difficult.

11:00 pm

Now that the butter has cooled down a bit, I move it into the freezer, so it sets quicker.

11:37 pm

I drink the rest of the cough syrup. (DXM HBi ~ 600 mg).

Put 9 Hawaiian Baby Woodrose seeds into a grinder with 2.5 grams of Psilocybe Cyanescens.

11:56 pm

Drink the LSA/psilocybin cocktail.
 
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The reason bottles are put into boxes is because it makes it easier to stack them on shelves and so they don't rattle around and smash during transport.



You're welcome
 
How does that not apply to anything else that's sold in bottles?

(Epic conclusion to the trip reports, pending...)
 
I'm rather intrigued by this whole bottle conspiracy myself...

Still waiting for enough crank to come to terms with my first and last datura experience and pound the shit out into pulp and edible prose.

Waiting for lazy inept tripsitters to tell me what the fuck happened as to enhance said time. Bastards actually lost me around 9pm.

Apparantly I drove around until 6 AM (this was verified) alone, completely out of sorts, blacked out, and annoyed as fuck whenever I'd snap back into reality and realize the bastards I'd been conversing with were not there.

Long story short: Don't try to help friends, no matter how dear they are or seem to you, help distinguish a starting dose of a drug you'd sworn no interest in ever doing. Not to mention, just because people act like they're knowledgable, chances are they're full of shit and could easily let you get in your car and risk death and encarceration. Fucking children. They'll get theres...

Bright side was that my confidence in my own defensive and survivalist driving skills has never been higher. Unreal.

More to come.

FEA I'm going to get back to your report when I get my bearings, I've had a rough couple of weeks, as if you hadn't noticed. ;)
 
Yeah, forests was talking to me. Thanks for the responses. Apologies, I never wrote the conclusion. This trip report is incomplete, and it's too late now.

I had trouble breathing after consuming the LSA. I think the combination of LSA and DXM is potentially dangerous. Though, all I can say for certain is: the combination of DXM, psilocybin, LSA & alcohol is not healthy.

I thought I was going to die.
 
You have to remember LSA isn't the only active chemical in HBWR/Morning Glory seeds, and correct me if I'm wrong but I believe the vasoconstrictive effects of HBWR/Morning Glory are much stronger than that of LSD
 
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